him for an off-the-books assignment in Syria. “Sheep-dipping” was a term that referred to the temporary recruitment of active-duty soldiers for “black,” or deniable, operations. Usually, the CIA had a hand in the process, and Kealey’s first task was no exception. At the time he had been a captain in the U.S. Army’s 3rd Special Forces Group, and that assignment—the assassination of a senior Islamic militant had changed him forever, as well as putting him on the path to a new career.
Since then, he and Harper had become good friends, but the job always came first, and Kealey knew the other man wouldn’t hesitate to impose on their relationship. He had done it before, and Kealey had always been up to the task. He wanted to refuse this time and knew he would have been justified in doing so. But while the older man’s face was as implacable as ever, there was something in his tone that gave Kealey pause. He could tell there was more to the current situation than Harper was letting on, and that made the decision for him.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll hear what you have to say, but I’m not committing to anything. Let’s get that straight from the start.” Kealey lifted his glass and drained the contents. “What’s this about, anyway?”
Harper pushed a plain manila folder across the table, then rose and collected their empty glasses. “Read through that, and then we’ll talk.”
CHAPTER 2
ORAEFI
“This guy doesn’t have much of a track record,” Kealey said ten minutes later. He closed the folder and tossed it onto the table. “And there’s nothing in that pile of paper to suggest he’s a threat. At least not to us.”
“Have you ever even heard of him?” Harper asked. He had returned with two fresh beers a few minutes earlier, but had sat quietly as he waited for Kealey to finish reading.
“The name seems familiar, but no, I don’t really know who he is.”
“Well, allow me to enlighten you, as the file is a little thin when it comes to his background. Amari Saifi is forty years old, Algerian born, and a former paratrooper in that country’s army, hence his nom de guerre, Abderrazak al-Para. He’s also a senior figure in the GSPC, otherwise known as the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. Since it came to prominence in the late nineties, the GSPC has been responsible for countless acts of terrorism in Algeria, most notably the kidnapping of thirty-two European tourists in 2003. That incident was masterminded by Saifi, and it was also what brought him to the attention of our government. To be fair, we weren’t really interested in the act itself. We were more concerned with how it all turned out in the end.”
“What do you mean by that?” Kealey had looked through the file with a slight degree of interest, but he didn’t know anything about Saifi or the GSPC, so it didn’t make much sense to him. One thing in particular had left him confused. According to the attached documents, the GSPC was committed to establishing an Islamic government in Algeria, which made it a rebel group with a limited objective and, presumably, a limited network. In other words, funding and active members were probably hard to come by. He didn’t understand why this ragtag group should concern the CIA or the president, especially since it had all but disbanded in recent years.
“After several months of secret negotiations,” Harper continued,
“the German government capitulated and offered Saifi a ransom of six million dollars in exchange for the hostages, which he accepted. All were returned safely in two stages, except for one woman, who apparently succumbed to heat exhaustion in the Sahara Desert. That was where the hostages were being held. Is any of this ringing a bell?”
“Not really.” Kealey wasn’t impressed. The size of the file—a few articles and some grainy photographs—said one of two things, at least in his opinion. Either Saifi wasn’t that big a deal, or there just wasn’t a lot of background on him. The deputy director’s next words, however, made the distinction clear.
“Ryan, I don’t get the feeling you’re taking this seriously, so let me say it in plain language. Simply put, Amari Saifi is probably the most dangerous person you’ve never heard of. Besides the kidnapping, he was directly involved in the murder of forty-three Algerian soldiers over a period of fourteen months. He was also linked to a number of bombings in neighboring Mauritania, though his involvement was never confirmed. Again, that was in 2003, but he’s been active with the Salafists since 1992.
“In March of 2004, Saifi was traveling on foot through the Tibesti Mountains when he was apprehended by another rebel group, the Movement for Democracy and Justice in Chad. That’s the MDJC, for the sake of brevity. Sixteen of his men were also captured in that incident, but Saifi was the only one who really mattered. The rebels instantly knew what they had, as by that time, Saifi had essentially established himself as the bin Laden of the Sahara.”
“So they decided to auction him off to the highest bidder,” Kealey guessed.
“Exactly. Unfortunately for the rebels, however, there were no takers, at least not at first. Strangely enough, even the Algerian government didn’t seem to be in that big a rush to get their hands on him.
We never figured out why, but it was probably because they didn’t want to risk their diplomatic relationship with the Chadian government.”
“Why didn’t we step in?”
“The same reason,” Harper replied. “We were tempted to make an offer, as Saifi was already on the State Department’s list of wanted terrorists, but it never happened. After much debate, the president decided he couldn’t deal with the rebels directly, because it would undermine the Pan Sahel Initiative, which was in its infancy at the time. Especially since the initiative was specifically aimed toward curtailing terrorist activity in North Africa, and the Chadian government pretty much viewed the MDJC as a terrorist organization. Anyway, alPara was eventually remanded to Libyan custody, and from there, the Algerians finally stepped in. A trial was scheduled for June 2005, but Saifi never stepped foot in the courtroom. He was sentencedin ab- sentia to life in prison, and according to the Algerian interior ministry, that’s where he currently is.”
Kealey looked up quickly, confusion spreading over his face. Then he flipped open the folder and pulled out a number of pictures. He turned them around so the other man could see, and said, “According to the time and date stamp, these pictures were taken two weeks ago. If this is Amari Saifi, how did he get out of prison, and why are the Algerians covering it up?”
Harper nodded slowly. “Good questions. Unfortunately, we don’t have any answers at this time.”
“Are we sure this is him?” Kealey asked, tapping the face in the photograph.
“Beyond a doubt. We used an older photo for comparison and ran them through the facial recognition software at Langley. We got a hit on eighteen nodal points, and as you know, fourteen nodes are enough to make a positive match.”
Kealey leaned back in his seat and lifted his glass, thinking it through as he nursed his beer. After a couple of minutes had passed in silence, he said, “There’s one thing I still don’t understand, John. Why does this concern us?”
Harper turned his head to the right. While they’d been talking, a young woman had entered the room and taken a seat at the bar, facing away from them. After studying her dispassionately for a moment, he turned back to Kealey.
Have you been keeping up with the news?”
“No.”
“You must know about the situation in Kashmir, though.”
Kealey nodded slowly. Several months earlier, the Israeli government had announced its commitment to a large armament sale to India. The deal—reputed to be worth nearly eight hundred million dollars—included a dozen Hermes 180 unmanned aerial vehicles, fifty Raytheon battlefield surveillance radars, and twenty-five SPYDER
mobile firing units. Perhaps the most controversial part of the deal, each SPYDER unit carried four missiles capable of engaging aerial targets from a distance exceeding 15 kilometers. When news of the impending sale became public, the Pakistani president, Pervez Musharraf, had immediately launched a ver
y vocal, public campaign condemning it. He’d implored the United States to step in and call a halt to the sale, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. To make matters worse, the Indians were seeking additional hardware from Israel, including submarine-launched cruise missiles, and Israel looked ready to deal. In response, the Pakistani army had begun increasing its presence on the disputed border in Jammu and Kashmir. Over the course of two short months, more than 10,000 troops had amassed on the Line of Control, and India had responded in kind. The White House had remained relatively quiet on the matter, and while many other world leaders had made remarks pleading for restraint on both sides, President Brenneman had yet to directly intervene in the Israel-India deal. Many saw this as a tacit approval of the transaction, including General Musharraf, who had recently boycotted a White House function while attending a peace symposium, of all things, in Washington, D.C.
“Secretary Fitzgerald arrived in Islamabad several hours ago,”
Harper said. Brynn Fitzgerald was the acting secretary of state. Two months earlier, her predecessor had suffered a fatal heart attack while attending a summit in Geneva, and Fitzgerald had been elevated to the top job, making her just the third woman to hold that position in U.S. history. The president, impressed with her work in the past, had immediately submitted her name to the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, but the Senate as a whole had yet to confirm the nomination.
“She’s expected to meet with Musharraf both tonight and tomorrow,” Harper continued. “With any luck, she’ll be able to convince him that we have limited influence over whom the Israelis do business with. Needless to say, it won’t be an easy sell. Everyone knows that Brenneman could squash that deal with a single call.”
“I agree,” Kealey said. “But what does this have to do with Amari Saifi?”
Harper pointed toward the photographs spread over the table.
“These images were captured by a professional photographer named Rebeka Cˇesnik. She, along with fourteen of her fellow passengers, disappeared on the Karakoram Highway in Pakistan two weeks ago. Three other people were killed as the kidnapping took place, along with the driver of the bus. Their bodies were left behind, along with the bus itself and all the passengers’ luggage.”
“If everyone is missing or dead, how did we get these shots?”
“Apparently, the kidnappers didn’t realize that Cˇesnik had removed the film from her camera. She hid it in her pack, and they settled for taking her camera. At least, that’s the assumption, as it was never recovered.”
“Okay, but how does this figure into Fitzgerald’s visit? And why is Amari Saifi, the leader of a North African terrorist group, operating in Pakistan all of a sudden?”
“Fitzgerald is going to make a few gentle inquiries in Islamabad,”
Harper said in response to the first question. “She’ll inquire about their efforts to track down the kidnappers, but Saifi is off-limits until we have more information on what he’s doing there. When the secretary of state meets with Musharraf tomorrow morning, she won’t mention al-Para once. You may not be aware of this, Ryan, but twelve American tourists have gone missing in Pakistan over the past several months. Some disappeared individually, others in groups of two or three. A ransom demand has yet to be made, and nobody’s claimed responsibility. We’re looking at Saifi for all of it. It’s almost an exact replication of what he did in Africa, only this time he’s taken our people, which makes it our business.”
“So to summarize, the president wants the hostages released unharmed as soon as possible, and he’s asked you to get it done.”
“Exactly.”
“Why should I care?” Kealey said, looking directly into the other man’s eyes. A brief, awkward silence ensued. “I don’t work for the Agency anymore, John. I don’t want to leave you hanging, but I want to be involved even less. Besides, it sounds like you need someone who speaks the languages. Someone who knows the area. More importantly, you need a place to start. A lead of some kind.”
“We have a lead,” Harper assured him. “All we need is someone to follow it up. That is, someone with a proven track record. Someone such as yourself. Remember, Ryan, the president asked for you by name on this. What happened in New York is not exactly a distant memory. He remembers what you did there. He remembers how many lives you saved that day, and he’s grateful for it. He wants someone who knows how to get results.”
“Then we’re back to why I should care.”
The deputy DCI leaned back in his seat and shook his head wearily. He looked for all the world like a guidance counselor who’d failed to get through to a wayward student. Instead of answering the younger man’s question directly, he pointed toward the other side of the room. “See that woman over there?”
Kealey turned in his seat to study the small, slender figure at the bar for the first time. He couldn’t see her face, but nevertheless, it clicked in a matter of seconds. His mind went blank, and it was like the air had been sucked right out of the room. For once, he’d been caught completely off guard.
“That’s why,” Harper said. His voice carried a hint of regret, as if he’d been pushed into something he found distasteful. “That’s why.”
CHAPTER 3
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
The three-story apartment building, located in the G7/1 sector of Islamabad, was just one of many similar dwellings on Khayabane-Suharwardy, a major street that marked the southern edge of the Pakistani capital. On the third-floor balcony of the end unit, close to the point where the thoroughfare met the Sahar Road, a solitary figure lifted a cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand. As he breathed in the calming smoke, he gazed out across the lush green grass and narrow, sinuous canals of Sector H7. In the distance were the lights of the Rose and Jasmine Garden, and beyond, the dark silhouette of the sports complex. The night air was warm and still, and traffic was almost nonexistent at three in the morning. It was quiet and peaceful, a marked contrast to the constant, clamorous din of the daylight hours. Behind him, through the open patio door, his wife stirred, moaned softly in her sleep, then fell silent once more. A lifelong insomniac, Naveed Jilani frequently ventured onto the balcony to gather his thoughts and while away the early-morning hours. On this occasion, though, he wasn’t just trying to pass the time. Instead, he was completely focused on the day that lay ahead. The fear and stress had been building up for the past two weeks, and he knew he hadn’t hidden it well. He didn’t know when his wife had first caught on, but he felt sure she had sensed it right from the start. Parveen was a fine woman, a good wife, an attentive mother to their three-year-old son. She was accustomed to his dark moods, his prolonged bouts of strained silence, and she knew when to give him his space. Being the devoted wife she was, she’d sought to relieve his stress in other ways, but even her gentle touch in bed had not been enough to quell his fears. It was something he could not have explained to her. She wouldn’t have understood, and he had no desire to trouble her with the true cause of his anxiety. She wouldn’t have been able to fix it anyway, but he couldn’t fault her for that. Even in the early hours of the morning, when the regret and bitterness left their deepest impressions, Naveed couldn’t bring himself to blame her. Sometimes it seemed as if his whole life had been leading up to this point, and there was nothing that he—or anyone else—could do to change it.
Jilani had been born in 1975 in the city of Quetta, less than 100 miles from the Afghan border. His mother had died of cancer when he was ten years old, and owing to his father’s lack of funds and interest, he was sent to live with his uncle in the slums of Karachi. Syed Jilani had tried and failed at many things by the time his nephew came to know him, but from 1979 to 1984, he found a degree of success in Afghanistan, where he fought with distinction alongside the mujahideen. In the years that followed, his hatred for America became increasingly virulent, despite the fact that the West had funded and armed the Afghan fundamentalists in their extended war against the Soviet forces. Still, his feelings for the West didn
’t preclude him from taking full advantage of the U.S. weapons and ammunition left over from the conflict in Afghanistan. It was a dangerous, highly illicit enterprise that required more than one set of hands, and when he first began smuggling arms from Afghanistan into neighboring Iran and Pakistan in 1997, Syed Jilani knew exactly where to turn for help. During his time in Afghanistan, the elder Jilani had formed lasting partnerships with men who knew how to use their positions for monetary gain. One of these contacts was an army lieutenant and a member of Inter-Services Intelligence. The only son of a construction magnate, Benazir Mengal was connected at the highest levels to Afghan warlords, Pakistani generals, and prominent figures in the emerging Taliban, and that made him the perfect man to facilitate Syed Jilani’s cross-border activities.
Naveed was fifteen years old when he met Mengal for the first time, and he had been instantly drawn to the charismatic Pakistani soldier. The reason for his adulation was simple: Mengal was an easy man to admire. Unlike Naveed’s father and uncle, he had succeeded brilliantly in everything he’d ever tried. He was handsome, intelligent, and possessed of a natural spark that allowed him to draw people in with incredible ease. From the very start, Naveed could see how Mengal affected the people around him, including his uncle. Syed Jilani, normally brash and quick to temper, was quiet and respectful in Mengal’s presence, as were his like-minded acquaintances. In short, Ben Mengal was everything Naveed Jilani wanted to be, and he’d modeled his whole life on that principle. At least he’d tried. Whether or not he’d succeeded was another matter entirely. He’d tried to join the Pakistani army shortly after his eighteenth birthday, but a thorough physical had revealed a heart defect that precluded his entrance. Naveed had desperately searched for a loophole, but when it became clear that all avenues were blocked, he’d turned to his mentor for help. By that time, Mengal was a lieutenant colonel and a department head with Inter-Services Intelligence. His influence alone would have been enough to cut through the bureaucratic restrictions, but on a calm summer day in 1993, he’d met with Naveed to explain the situation. He had described the limited opportunities the army would offer, due to the younger man’s nonexistent education, and he’d proposed an alternative: a career in government service.
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